I saw a comedy critic scuttling along the road like an urban fox yesterday. He was using parked cars for concealment in case he was spotted by one of his many victims. I watched him for some time: he would poke his head up, surveying the scene – then, on deciding it was safe, off he'd sidle to another venue. He wasn't bad at avoiding comics. I'd give him two stars.

This is my last column and it is with some regret that I bow out. To be honest, I'll probably keep writing it and glue it into my copy of the Guardian every day. I'm not good at letting go.

But what have been the highlights and lowlights of the greatest arts festival in the world? Well, my strangest moment occurred when walking into the Pleasance Courtyard a couple of nights ago. A young woman shoved a flyer in my face and muttered "friendly late-night comedy". When I politely declined she swore at me. Might want to work on your technique there.

My happiest moment was undoubtedly watching a young man in one of those bicycle rickshaws trying to pedal up a large hill while carrying what looked like an eight-woman-strong hen night. He was moving at a pace of an out-of-shape snail but he kept going. Like the Little Engine That Could, he kept going. They screamed and shouted as he puffed and panted but he got to the top of the hill. And the ladies got out and tumbled into a kebab shop. I look forward to the Commonwealth Games in 2014.

To be honest I'm a bit concerned that I don't remember my best moment. It's not because of alcohol: this has been the soberest fringe I've ever had. Sadly for the first 10 days of August I was extremely unwell. I genuinely can't recall what my shows were like or what I did. I asked on Twitter whether or not I punched anyone and everyone said they were fine. That's on Twitter of course. Sorry if I punched a real-life person.